


Diary of a Bad Man

by MemoryCrow



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Control Issues, Daddy Kink, F/M, Mental Instability, Mental Link, Naughtiness, Power Dynamics, Punishment, Sassy, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-26 01:38:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14391480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: “Come here.”She let her tongue loll out and panted like a happy dog, still mocking. Her hands hung limp at her chest, obedient paws.





	Diary of a Bad Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Northern queen](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Northern+queen).



> Northern queen requested a smutty prompt wherein Weaver spanks Tilly for being naughty. This sort of prompt is not far from my heart's own longing. :D
> 
> (Sorry it took so long, NQ. The work schedule is no joke.)

Confused, Tilly said, “But, I wasn’t bad. Not a dot.”

“Oh, I think a dot, dearie.”

Weaver felt a little sorry for her. Sometimes he played his games, and she was so deep-down her rabbit hole, she simply didn’t follow. He felt bad, but – in fact – he preferred it this way. Agreeable women saying, “Oh _no_ , daddy… Was I _bad_?” had once been exciting. Now, it put him off.

Sincerely, Tilly said, “No. Not a dot. I don’t know what you’re on about.”

One could take her point. One could see the source of her confusion. All sorts of offenses could be manufactured in the name of doling out punishment. It could be difficult to predict.

“Just look at yourself, Tilly.”

Instead, she looked at him, her light eyes rounded in question. She was lying on his kitchen table. Sock-footed, her legs were crossed upon it, her head and arms hung off, hair dangling to the floor. Upside-down, she appraised him.

In fact, he could care less about her sprawl upon furniture that was typically reserved for place settings and food. She looked quite fetching, her playful and curious nature in full effect. She literally took a different perspective on things. While she was at it, the angle of her perception jutted out her breasts in a particularly saucy manner. Bravo; it was brilliant.

However, in the parlance of his childhood, he’d have been _skinned alive_ for such an act. A caper over the table would see him _snatched bald-headed_ , would guarantee that someone would _tan his hide_ , _fry his blood_. Maybe box his ears and leave him stunned and dizzy with bright, sparkling pain. Should he have voiced a complaint, someone would surely offer to _give him something to cry about_. Once upon a time, children who made their childishness too obvious were beaten soundly and put to bed without supper, as good parental practice.

So, then. He began to unbuckle his belt.

“Get yourself down from that table if you know what’s good for you, Tilly.” He counted on her not knowing.

“No bloody way are you hitting me with that thing.” She said, and he smiled. She never knew what was good for her. She knew the thoughts of birds and beetles, but her own well-being was often compromised.

“You don’t think so?” he asked.

“No. I bloody well don’t. Try it, Weaver. I’ll wrestle it out of your hands and give _you_ a beating.”

Oh, even better. She said it playfully, but with an edge. He felt himself get hard; no surprise. It was his blood that drove him, all along.

Tilly saw it. Rather than getting off the table, she rolled to her belly. He legs came up behind, crossed at the ankle. Weaver looked at multicolored, striped socks, almost knee-high, covering her dark leggings. He had a bad moment of imagining her sock-feet, her dark-clad legs as he exposed the pale expanse of her bum. Imperiously, she eyed his crotch. Well. That was misbehaving, too.

His hands were fists, holding both ends of his doubled-over belt. “Come here.” He said.

It wasn’t terribly effective. She just looked at him, chin propped on her fist. She raised her brow.

“Everything is arbitrary, everywhere. You don’t mind me on your table. Gardens don’t mind when roses are red. It’s all excuses. For _that_ thing.” She nodded to his crotch.

Spot-on, even with the nonsense about roses. But, he’d taken on the role, he knew his lines. He must play it out.

“Don’t be absurd, dearie. Tables aren’t for lounging. Certainly, they’re not for _feet_. Do I come to your house and walk on your table?”

“I haven’t got a house, do I. Nor a table, neither.”

“The point remains. Get your arse down off my bloody table and come here. Don’t make me come after you, Tilly.

She swiveled about so that she sat on the table, legs dangling down. Her short khaki skirt rose up, material crumpled. She grinned.

“That would be bad, wouldn’t it? You, coming after me.”

“You know it would be, missy.”

“Do you think I’m afraid of you, Weaver? Big spider. Spiders are forever going on about their many legs and clever designs. Then, they get squashed under boots.”

Going with her logic, Weaver gave a sardonic look. “However, you’re in sock-feet.”

It seemed to give her pause. Things always went more smoothly when he got into her rhythm. Her face took on a brief look of _hmmm_ , but then she shook her head. “No. You’ll have to come after me, I imagine.”

He barely let her get the words out of her mouth. He advanced. Cat-quick, she hopped off the table and scurried to its far side, laughing.

“It thinks it can catch me!” she chortled to the air. “It thinks its old bones can catch mine.”

“ _It_ thinks you’re an impudent girl who needs a good, sound spanking.”

“Its thinking is improbable and unlikely!”

Ah, he had her. He knew her weaknesses. Pausing in his chase – it was ridiculous, around and around the table, never meeting – he said, “ _She_ believes in the improbable, the unlikely. She makes those things come true.”

Tilly never made much of a physical threat. Weaver had found the fun of Tilly was squirming into her mind. That was where she lived, where she was sometimes trapped. Stalking her there whetted his appetite.

Her body slowed as she considered that which was improbable and unlikely. She _did_ believe. In that moment, her belief caused those things to come true. His old bones came level to her. He fisted his hand in her hair, at her nape.

“Let’s go.” He said, his voice a growl.

“Where are we going?’

“To my bedroom.”

“Why?’

“So I can show you what big teeth I have, you cheeky urchin. _Move_.”

Docile, she was propelled by his hand in her hair, the prod of his belt to her back. But, she said, “No. No… _wrong_. Wrong girl. I didn’t stray from any path, did I. No. I was _good_.  I tripped and fell, just a little curious. It could happen to anyone.”

“And yet it was you.”

Abruptly, she turned. It curled her into his embrace, his hand still in her hair. Her eyes were wide. “Who _are_ you?” she breathed.

… Shite. He played her games too well. He messed her up, poking around in her world, responding to her as if he belonged in there. Gentling his hand, he stroked her hair.

“You know who I am, dearie. I’m Weaver.”

“I don’t know what that means. Who am I?” her face was troubled.

“You’re Tilly.”

She made a face. “That seems a stupid name. Like a name you’d give to a chicken.”

Weaver snorted. He pet her, watching her slowly come back to herself.

“What are we doing? You want to smack me?”

“Indeed, I do.”

“What for?”

“For monkeying around on my furniture.”

Tilly searched his face. He felt her hand come to his crotch, her palm warm as it found the hard length of his cock. Her fingertips, as searching as her eyes, felt out the shape of its head.

“Nothing to do with this?”

Pressing into her hand, Weaver murmured, “ _Everything_ to do with that.”

For a few moments, he forgot about the belt. He stood close to Tilly, lips almost touching. He shared her breath, took in her soft scent of magnolia and oranges. She smelled, also, of the street, outside. The cold, chalky cement of her troll, car exhaust and sweet-spicy food trucks.

He needed it. He needed her. His hand gripped her hair once more, and he said, “Move your arse, love. Into the bedroom. I’ll be Weaver and you’ll be Tilly, who has misbehaved.”

“You’ll be Weaver, whose willie is angry.”

“Yes. I’ll be him.”

 

 

The Diary of a Bad Man: Not all girls understand that you’re a predator.

The pretty ones know it. They know it about you, about boys in their schools, about Government officials and sanitation workers. They’re used to feeling suspicious, to making men earn a place at their sides. Good deeds, heroics. Power. Money. Tit-for-tat and quid quo pro was programmed into the pretty ones early, and rightly so.

It's all surface, genetics; but whose eye did not rove over perfect, honey-toned skin? Bouncing breasts, always at an up-swing. Long legs, shining hair and big, staring Pre-Raphaelite eyes. Unless their fathers, uncles, teachers had seriously fucked them up, these girls knew better.

Other girls were taught at home, perhaps in poisonous ways, but still effective. _They only want one thing. Don’t dress like that. Do not invite_. They were kept fearful, as suspicious as their prettier sisters.

_Don’t stray from the path_.

Tilly was right; that was a different girl, made for the belly of a different wolf. Tilly didn’t know to fear him as a predator. She was pretty; Weaver found her almost unbearably pretty, a fragility in her light, far-seeing eyes and fair skin; but she wasn’t the sort of girl who grew up knowing it. Her prettiness wasn’t the savage beauty of the startling Lolitas with their knowing, mocking looks.

She looked in the mirror and saw front teeth she thought were too big, a mixed bag of quirks. She saw a curious child who followed the wayward spirits of cats. More likely, she looked into the mirror looked _through_ it, into other worlds.

 

 

“Lift your skirt. Pull your leggings down to your knees. Bend over and place your hands on the bed.”

“You’re so very concise. Specific. Is it because you’re a detective?”

“Do as I say, Tilly. Don’t try my patience.”

“It’s a virtue, they say.”

“I’m not a virtuous man.”

“No. I suppose not.”

Turning her back to Weaver, Tilly complied. He watched the tug and pull of her skirt, a graceless-but-charming hip-shimmy as she worked it up, a puddle at her waist. Down came the leggings, the rolling of fabric over elastic. She bent over, her legs parted as much as the leggings would allow.

For a moment, Weaver only looked. His eyes moved over the heart-shape of her bottom, covered in a little scrap of light blue cotton, her knickers all askew. The palms of his hands burned, aching to feel what his eyes saw.

Tilly peered back at him. “Are you planning a painting? Have you got an easel?”

“ _Shhhh_ …”

It always seemed to subdue her, the soft shush. He’d learned little cues, small touches. If desired, he could nearly induce trance. Her torso swung back, hovered over the bed. She waited.

Weaver took off his jacket and let it fall to the floor. Any motion he made, any sound or disturbance of air while her back was to him made her more sensitive. The skin of her bared bum, the backs of her thighs goose-bumped with sensitivity, with awareness. He paced to his dresser. He removed his watch and lay it on the dresser with a soft _clunk_ , watching soft hairs, peach fuzz stand up along Tilly’s back. He opened and closed a drawer for no reason. He fished loose change from his pocket and let it jingle to the dresser’s surface.

Several paces from Tilly, he let slack into the loop of his belt, then snapped it tight. The whip-crack sound was loud; at its pop, Tilly jumped a little. The air vibrated in the sound’s wake.

He approached her and lay the coil of his belt on the small of her back. She flinched form the cold metal of the buckle. Unable to stop himself, he stroked, open palmed, over the curves of her bottom. Around and around, until he was nearly in trance, himself. His fingers slipped between her legs, feeling the heat of her body through the gusset of her panties. She gasped, a soft inhale. It went through his body, and then again, as her hips tilted up.

“Feels good?” he asked. His other hand palmed his cock through his jeans. He throbbed, a hot pressure low in his abdomen.

Tilly whispered, “Yes.” She pushed against him.

The temptation to make her come, fast and hard, was strong. Her panties were getting damp, her hips restless. Small moans came from her throat. A quick learner, she nearly rose up to her toes to get his fingers closer to her clit.

He loved controlling her this way, feeling her melt at the touch of his hand. But if she came, she would be too compliant. She’d cuddle herself into slaps, high on endorphins. He needed something sharper.

Abruptly, no warning, he withdrew his hand and snatched his belt from her back. He gave neither her nor himself room to gather breath or think; gripping the doubled belt at buckle and tongue, he landed a vicious slap at the curve of one cheek.

It was loud, the more-so for the doubled belt, the air between straps of leather. Tilly yelped, then loudly whined, “ _Owwww_ ….” Her feet turned inward, knees coming together in a protective way. Letting one elbow bend, she turned to look at him in accusation.

He _tsked_ her, shaking a forefinger. “That’s not how we do it.”

Her face was flushed and there was a livid, red stripe on her creamy-white bum. She curled her lip.

“Who is this _we_?”

It made Weaver smile, then chuckle. It was true enough; so far he hadn’t offered up his own arse for punishment, though he wondered if – at some point – he might. It gave him a strange, shivery feeling. He gave her bottom a gentle pat where he’d struck her, then corrected her stance. With the belt, he nudged her elbow into straightening, he tapped her legs apart.

“Face the bed, dearie.”

“My feet aren’t _that_ bad. _You_ said they were nice feet.”

“No back-talking.”

“No laughing, no breathing…”

He smacked her again and she yelped again. He knew it stung, sharp and hurtful. She couldn’t bite back her reactions. Her knees once more came together, their planed caps pressing to the end of his bed. He didn’t bother to correct her; he brought the strap down again. And again.

The control he’d sought faded, fraying at its edges. That he had Tilly under his control seemed certain, but he was losing control of himself. Seeing red, he brought the strap down, repeatedly. Tilly made sounds like a puppy, trying valiantly to keep her pose. He became aware of it; her pain and effort. Her arms trembled and her head hung. The puppy sounds were small sobs, interrupted by gulps of air.

Weaver backed up a step. He was flushed, damp at the brow. His eyes focused and he took in the red stripes, welts over Tilly’s bottom, the backs of her legs. When the slaps stopped, she collapsed to the bed and curled in on herself.

Still standing back, Weaver said, “It’s alright, dearie. You’re alright.” But was he? Would he ever be?

“You’re a bad man.” Tilly said, her voice thick with tears.

“Aye. That I am, love.”

 

 

 

Diary of a Bad Man: Don’t break those things you’ve come to need.

 

 

 

Weaver sat on the bed next to Tilly and pet her hair. This was all too familiar. He’d done it before, it had been done to him before. Blows followed by tears; the tears were usually his father’s. He wouldn’t give his father the satisfaction of tears. _It’s for your own good. It hurts me more than it hurts you_. A howling loss of temper followed by remorse.

Well. He would never speak such lies to Tilly. She’d had the right of it when she’d traced the origin of the belt in his hand to the bulge at his crotch.

“That bloody hurt.” She sniffed.

“I know, love. Come on, come here. Over my knee, lay over my lap.”

Tilly lifted a lock of hair from her face and peered up with one disbelieving, blue eye. “You’re off your nut.”

“Behave. I won’t hurt you anymore, but we’re not done.”

“… You swear?”

Weaver looked down. How much did he want to promise? Playing with her hair, he said, “I won’t hurt you, much. I won’t use the belt.”

“Oh, bloody hell.”

Weaver chuckled again. The girl was funny. She kept him feeling rather lively, even when they were only hanging around together, perched on her Troll, sex nowhere in sight. Even at the bloody market, which he hated.

“Come on, hop-to. Stand up and pull your panties down.”

“ _Oh_. Surprise, surprise, detective.”

She really was a quick study, muddled brains and all. It was likely he was predictable.

“No back-talk.” He reminded her.

Standing, she made a prim little face at him. She pretended to lock up her mouth with a key and did a knock-kneed, mock-curtsy. He allowed the sass, indulgent. With a fluttery-eyed flourish, she scooched her knickers down to her knees.

Her nakedness was bottom-half and awkward. Weaver found it adorable. He found it luscious. His eyes wandered over the soft curve of her lower belly, her hips. The little thatch of hair between her legs, darker than at her head. He patted his thigh.

“Come here.”

She let her tongue loll out and panted like a happy dog, still mocking. Her hands hung limp at her chest, obedient paws. When he made a questioning face, she pretended to hold up long skirts in dainty hands, pinkies aloft. She waddled over, restricted at the knees.

“Very charming.” He told her. “Quite fetching.”

“Mind yourself. I’m a _lady_.”

“Oh-ho. Giving orders, are we?”

“Again, Weaver. Who is this _we_?”

He snorted. He took her hand and pulled her down, a clumsy flop over his legs. It was heady… bare bum, angry red; the heat of her body against him, pressed to his groin. He swallowed a moan and caressed over her bottom, his touch light.

Even so, she flinched. Her breath hissed over her teeth. “It’s like bees.” She said. “Why do you want to do those things?”

“I’m a bad man. As you say.”

“Victoria Belfrey is bad. Do you reckon she whips her men?”

Startled, Weaver burst into laughter. “I would put money on it.” he said. He wished badly that he could. Perhaps he could get intel on the matter.

“Well. I guess you’re nicer than her.”

“Mm. To a select few.”

“The ones you think are special?”

“Aye, love.” Tilly liked being special. She _was_ special.

He touched her again, merely laying his hand on her bared bottom, letting her abused flesh get used to the weight and pressure of it. After a bit, she gave a tell-tale, little squirm. Weaver moved his fingers closer to the space between her legs.

“Restless, dearie?”

Tilly pressed her face to his hip. She murmured something, her bum lifting up as she sought his hand. He let her seek, enjoying watching her, feeling her frustration. Then, he slipped his fingers between her legs. It was his turn to inhale, sharply, breath hissing over his teeth… she was so wet. So wet. He slid his fingers up and down her slit, his body aching at the feel of her hot folds of flesh, slippery and demanding. She whimpered and her hips made a subtle, up-and-down rocking.

“I don’t think you disliked your punishment nearly as much as you led me to believe.”

Tilly moaned and said, “Oh, it’s a twisted path, it is.”

“Indeed, it is. Maybe you like bad men.”

“I like _you_.”

“Do you, love?”

She whimpered again. Weaver slid his middle finger inside her to the knuckle, and her whimper became a pleasured moan.

“More, dearie?”

“Yes _. Yes_.”

His teeth clenched. His free hand grasped a fistful of her hair. His middle finger thrust steadily, his thumb caressed over the soft pucker of her anus. She panted and purred, caught between his hands. The haze of red that came over Weaver was the same as the red haze of violence. In both instances, he was driven by bloodlust.

“I want you to come for me.” He whispered.

Tilly made a low keening, her body shifting between taut stillness and writhing. He let go of her hair and, instead, covered her mouth with his hand. Her open mouth was at his palm, hot. Her nose huffed over his hand. Breathless, he withdrew his fingers from the core of her and reached lower, sliding in wetness. His fingertips strummed a rhythm at her clit, feeling its feverish engorgement.

“ _Come_ for me.” He hissed. He tugged his hand, firm to her mouth, leaning down to nuzzle against her. Her breath stalled, her body tensed. He coaxed, “ _Yes_ , that’s it. That’s it, dearie, come for me while I play with your pussy.”

Her breath came again, fast, along with harsh moans. Her body spasmed. Weaver felt dizzy… all of his blood pooled hotly in his belly and turned his cock into steel. His head felt full of fire. He let her ride against his hand, then scooped her up and flipped her onto her back, on the bed. She yelped, hurt backside protesting. Heedless, Weaver pulled off her panties, leggings and socks in one go. He spread her legs and got onto his knees, between them. He pushed his jeans down and held his cock.

“Do you want it?” he panted.

He wasn’t sure her answer would matter, but felt gratified when she nodded, body fervent and eyes drugged.

“I want to _feel_ you.” She said.

He wanted to feel her, too. Her pussy, wet-to-dripping, offered little resistance. He hilted himself inside her and began thrusting upon the instant. It felt too good; the hot squeeze, a poignant tug on the line of fire going down the center of his body. He held her legs flush to his body and slammed into her. She would be bruised. Bruised, marked from his belt… he wished to see it.

He pulled out of her. Hands to her flank and hip, he flipped her over. He pulled her to her knees, pulled her hips back and slid into her again. He was on edge. He slapped her bum and her moan became a sharp yell. In an effort not to hurt her further, he gripped his hands to her hips, hard.

It was good, so good. It wasn’t yet enough.  Nameless aggression, the diary of a bad man roiled inside. Pulling out again, he stood on the bed and shoved off, stepped out of his jeans. He crouched over Tilly, his body completely enfolded over hers. One arm wrapped around her body, his hand clamped to her breast. His other hand closed over mouth again. Holding her so, he thrust hard, his head buried to her shoulder, in her hair.

His need was great. It was going to flood into her, fill her up. Her hips pressed back against him, and that did it. His body spasmed, a stutter at his pelvis and then he was sealed tight. He moaned, long and low, his insides squeezed and released as he spilled into her. He couldn’t hear her for his own voice, the noise in his head, a beating of wings and ragged breath. The swarming haze of red, Tilly’s bees, burst in a liquid way. The haze became dark, and the darkness held him. It held Tilly.

 

 

 

Diary of a Bad Man: You’re needy, you’re greedy. You’re all of those things you accuse her of being. You are all of those things, and more.

The need is great. It wants, its heart bleeds, its fingers ache and twitch. Its belly is hollow and hurting.

You’re a coward who needs her for strength. You’ve become a cold man, and you need her for warmth. You were a lost boy who found evil, and who needs a mother, a sister, a friend. You can’t forget hunger; you need her for succor.

It’s all weakness, all of this need. It’s a soft belly, vulnerable. The wounded eyes of a child, not yet impervious to what others do and say.

As she helps you, as she gives you what you need she will expose these things. They will rise to your surface. Then, you will need to hurt her.

Be mindful. Learn sweetness.

Make her bend as you must, but do not break her. Make her hurt as you must, but lick her wounds. You may be her tormentor; be also her mender, doctor, father and guardian. You must be her lover. She is so precious, and your need is so great.

You need her far, far more than she needs you.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
